Charles’ unexpected and untimely death had also put paid to Elizabeth’s marriage negotiations with Alençon. And she had a feeling that this time, Elizabeth was sincere in her desire to marry. But Alençon! Twenty-two years separated them on the wrong side. Had there ever been such a ludicrous match? But it was impossible now; Alençon was heir presumptive to the French throne and once again a prospective bridegroom was out of reach for her cousin. A smug smile played across her lips. She herself had enjoyed three husbands; Elizabeth was likely to live and die as virgin as she was born.
Hah! Perhaps! Margaret had brought with her from court some delicious rumors; there was gossip of a night spent alone in her privy closet with her chamberlain. And then three days alone in his rooms nursing him for the small pox! Had he even really been ill? What were physicians and apothecaries for, after all? Perhaps her cousin had ceased her courses and was now able to indulge her carnal lust for the commoners around her. As her own father had done! And was not Elizabeth also her mother’s daughter, half common and a bastard? What else should one expect from the daughter of Anne Boleyn, the Great Whore?
It was a very great pity indeed that Elizabeth’s erstwhile paramour had betrayed her with her own cousin. How the Earl of Leicester’s marriage must have galled her! According to Lady Margaret, who had brought all the latest snippets of court gossip with her to Derbyshire; the marriage was now an open secret at court. The new Countess of Leicester had given birth to a son in August. The pain that Elizabeth must have felt at that was as balm to Mary’s own soul.
Seton stirred and Mary turned from Lord George to face her.
“How doth his Lordship?” she asked Mary sleepily.
Mary placed a hand on Lord George’s brow. “Well enough,” she replied. “The fever is in abeyance and has not been replaced with chills this time. A hopeful sign indeed.”
When Mary turned back, Seton had already closed her eyes; she sat with her head on one side, her hand slipped into her bodice for warmth. Seton also had heard the evil rumors about Elizabeth tending Christopher Hatton on her own… as ill as she was, she would countenance no such rumors to be bruited abroad about her mistress; and so as long as Mary tended the Earl of Shrewsbury at his sick bed, she would sit vigil by their side.
Lord George stirred, but did not awaken; Mary held the cup to his lips. Even a few drops would make a difference. He settled back and her thoughts returned to the Continent. There was little to hope for now from France or from her Guise relatives. With the newly forged Treaty of Bristol between Spain and England, she could place no faith in assistance from King Philip in reacquiring her throne. And the pope in Rome had gone as silent as the grave where her plight was concerned.
What was there left for her, then? Her thoughts shifted to the here and now. There was one pastime open to her, in her now narrowly focused world. Vengeance! Revenge would taste sweet upon her tongue. If liberty and her throne were not to be had, then vengeance she would have. And well deserved! Bess, who could have made her lot in her enforced captivity so much easier and more comfortable had she chosen to do so, had not so chosen, indeed, had gone out of her way to make her miserable. And for that she should pay.
Then there was her hated former mother-in-law, Lady Margaret, Countess of Lennox, who had done her utmost to blacken her character in the days after Darnley’s death. For that rush to judgment, the countess would pay. She would use Bess’s unbridled ambition as a weapon to bring them both down.
Lord George sighed and his lids fluttered again. At the sight of Mary’s anxious face looking down at his own, he blinked in surprise. Was he still wandering in his fever…? How he had dreamed of her! At that thought, he blanched. Had he raved…?
“Oh my lord, my lord!” cried Mary. “We have been so worried for you!”
Seton stirred and Mary reached out a hand to her, while still keeping her other hand atop Lord George’s. At last his hand felt cool.
“How long…?” he croaked.
“Two days and three nights,” said Mary soothingly. “Only that.”
“Have I been…” he longed to ask, but dared not. It must have been Mary’s presence that had penetrated his fevered brain and made him wander with her in places that he dared not even imagine when in his right mind.
“My lord has been no bother at all,” soothed Mary. She knew well his concern. She knew well that he loved her. Did he not spend his own money to eke out the miserable, inadequate allowance that Elizabeth made him for her upkeep? The expensive French wines that her purse could not afford, the delicate sweetmeats that she so favored…
Mary smiled. “Seton and I have never had a quieter or less bothersome fever patient,” she said.
The relief shone patent in his eyes. He did not even ask why a queen was attending him in his sick bed instead of his own countess. He could only thank God fasting for the favor! He could only marvel at it, and be grateful for it.
Rufford Abbey, December 1574
A fire crackled merrily on the hearth, lighting the eager young faces of Charles Stuart and the Lady Elizabeth Cavendish. Mary’s privy chamber at Rufford Abbey was small, but for all that, it was cozy and warm, and was a favorite place of assignation for the two lovers. Elizabeth, as tiny as a child, sat perched upon a cushioned stool; Charles, who sat at her feet, lounged on an intricately patterned Turkey carpet. Elizabeth smiled and reached out a dainty hand; Charles took it into his own. He kissed the back of it lingeringly and then began tracing circles in her palm with his thumb. All the while Charles was regaling Elizabeth with a tale that made her laugh. The sound of her laughter was very much like the twittering of Mary’s songbirds, of which she now possessed several. To assuage what she knew was Lord George’s initial chagrin at the gift to her, a prisoner, of a caged bird, she had simply asked him for another, then another. Eager to please, Lord George had complied.
Elizabeth Cavendish was Bess’s daughter from her second marriage, to Sir William Cavendish. The girl was more pretty than beautiful; shy and unassuming, her vulnerability made a strong appeal to Charles Stuart’s vast egoism. It had not taken the two of them long to fall into a very satisfying calf-love, whilst the house had been laid low after their arrival at Rufford in October. Mary had observed the two assessingly in those early days. It appeared as if very little scheming would be required on her part to effect her plan. She knew what it was to love blindly, passionately, without regard for consequences. She had done all she could to accommodate the lovers. Her rooms, while she had been attending Lord George through his illness and convalescence, had been made available, albeit silently, tacitly; Mary was a master of the art of the unspoken phrase, the unfinished sentence… The inevitable had happened, and when consulted by a shocked Lady Elizabeth whatever was to be done now, Mary had taken great pleasure in informing Bess that her daughter was facing ruin, and Margaret that Charles had deflowered the girl and now must needs marry her.
Charles Stuart was in the line of succession just as his brother Darnley had been, and could not marry without the queen’s leave to do so. But in spite of the danger inherent in the situation, still Mary had detected the gleam of ambition in Bess’s eye. Her own daughter, married to Charles Stuart! Any child of their union would also be in the line of succession. Bess was livid and railed at both of them, but even so, Mary could tell that she could hardly contain her enthusiasm for the match. A grandson of her blood to one day, perhaps, sit on the throne of England! It was an opportunity not to be missed.
It had not taken long; Lady Elizabeth missed one course, then a second. And now, they must marry. When the two children, along with Bess and Mary, sought an audience with the still-ailing Countess of Lennox to break the news, Lady Margaret was beside herself with rage. The panoply of emotions that played across her features in quick succession did much to assuage the hurt and anger that had long smoldered in Mary’s breast at her treatment by her former mother-in-law. Incredulity; disgust; anger; fear; panic. There was nothing for it; the two must marry and t
he queen must be informed. To delay or to try to hide the situation could be fatal.
“How could you have let such a thing happen?” Lady Margaret had cried to Bess.
“I?” replied Bess coldly. “I have been ill unto death, as you yourself have been! Cannot your son tell the difference between deflowering a common serving wench and ruining my noble daughter?”
“Your noble daughter?” spat Margaret. “Pray, tell me where is the nobility in falling on one’s back as if one were the very serving wench of which you speak!”
“How dare you!” cried Bess. “Elizabeth was innocent! Any blame must be laid at Charles’ door! Do not even attempt to deny that I am right! He should have known better! There is nothing for it, then; they must marry.”
Margaret sputtered in her rage. “Mingle royal blood with your base blood? Never!”
Mary kept silent during the entire exchange. She recalled with a self-satisfied complacency the many times she had seen Charles straining at his codpiece as the insipid Lady Elizabeth made cow’s eyes at him. Now the white heat of Margaret’s anger was unavoidable; she was a Tudor, after all. A small smile curved Mary’s lips. Bess had to be seen to rail against the fate that had brought her innocent daughter – a virgin no longer, and soon to be a mother - to the brink of ruin. But blind to all but her ambition to mingle her own blood with royalty, Bess seemed to have forgotten Queen Elizabeth’s misplaced anger when the Lady Katherine Grey had married secretly. And even though Bess had been innocent and ignorant of knowledge of the entire affair, Elizabeth had not believed her, and in her rage had thrown Bess unceremoniously into the Tower. Mary hugged the knowledge to herself that in this new situation, Bess’s ordeal was still to come; let her enjoy her dubious triumph whilst she may. But in Margaret’s instant and frightening rage she could take immediate delight.
Having shouted themselves out as if they were fishwives on the London docks, Mary arose from her chair. Raising herself to her full height and giving her head a royal tilt, she said, “The queen must be informed.”
At this, both women blanched; not an unexpected reaction! Mary nodded sagely. “I shall write to Her Grace on your behalf,” she said regally, as if she were bestowing some great boon. She would take great pleasure in doing so; for along with Margaret’s chagrin and Bess’s misplaced ambition, she would surely be able to add to her catalog of vengeance Elizabeth’s fury at the news that yet another royal relative had defied her by marrying without her royal permission.
Greenwich Palace, January 1575
Sir Francis Walsingham could hear the queen at the archery butts long before he could see her. Unless Her Grace was in a temper, she was unfailingly polite, and even witty when she chose to be. But place her into any competitive situation…even if she were competing only against herself…and it was as if some demon possessed her. If she failed in her task, she would swear like a sailor; she had also been known to destroy whatever implement she was using. Although Elizabeth excelled at archery, she missed the target often enough to keep her bowyers busy making new bows, and arrows for the royal quiver.
He rounded the hedge beyond which the archery butts lay, a safe distance from the palace gardens. Elizabeth was clad not in the usual voluminous gown, beribboned and bejeweled, but in the plainest garb in which he had ever seen her; none of the usual fripperies or furbelows of dress were tolerated for archery practice. She wore a green velvet tunic with a tooled leather chest-guard; the tooling depicted the various coats of arms to which the queen was entitled, and had been etched in gold. Her hair was caught in a golden net, but where the sun hit it, it glinted red.
Elizabeth was a conscientious leader; attendance at the archery butts was compulsory for all men between the ages of fifteen and sixty, to keep their skills sharp. And so Elizabeth also practiced every Sunday after services. She used a long bow, just as her men were expected to do, along with the deadly smooth and minimally fletched arrows of the longbow-man; all made to her measure.
A part of Sir Francis wished that he could delay imparting his news, for just at that moment he heard the queen cry out in chagrin at a shot gone wide of the target. This was followed by the distinct crack of the yew of the bow across the queen’s knee. But the tidings he brought were evil indeed and should not wait. And the barbaric days of the practice of killing the messenger who brought unwelcome news were long past. At least he hoped so.
Just as he approached, one of the bowyers handed the queen a new bow. She bent the mighty bow to string it, tested the pull, and handed the bow back. “This bow needs tuning,” she said. The bowyer handed her another, and to this one, without comment, she nocked an arrow. Again the determined draw, the graceful arc, the deadly aim, the faint whistling sound of the release as the arrow was let fly. This time the arrow hit its target.
“Hah!” she cried, a triumphant note in her voice. “Bull’e eye!”
The arrow, buried almost to mid-shaft, quivered in the butt. Sir Francis shivered.
Elizabeth drew another arrow from her quiver. “You are looking decidedly glum, sir,” she said.
Sir Francis drew breath to speak just as Elizabeth let fly the arrow; then she drew and fired three more arrows in quick succession. All hit their mark in a symmetrical grouping. She handed the bow to the bowyer and said, “Come, let us walk.”
Sir Francis drew a parchment from his doublet. Best to let her read the letter for herself. Wordlessly he handed the scroll to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth tucked the scroll under her arm. She removed her gloves and arm guard, tossing them onto a stone garden bench. She opened the scroll and looked to its signature. “Humph,” she grunted. “Another missive from the Queen of Scotland. What ails Her Grace now?” Her eyes skimmed the letter. “God’s bloody eyeballs!” she cried. “Are they all daft up Nottinghamshire way? Can this be true?”
“Alas,” said Sir Francis. “When I received this I sent a fast rider up to Rufford. He has confirmed that it is only too true.”
Elizabeth dashed the letter to the ground. Clasping her arms each with the opposite and pacing the ground in front of the stone bench, she said, “What ails the women of this family, Walsingham? My aunt married a commoner for love, and she a Queen of France! My other aunt made two unwise marriages, and she a queen of Scotland! My cousin Margaret had two questionable liaisons with men of my own Howard clan, my Grey cousins both disgraced themselves with secret marriages, and Mary of Scotland’s matrimonial choices hardly need elaboration at this point! And now Charles Stuart has married a daughter of Bess of Hardwick! And do not think that I am laboring under any misapprehension as to whom is behind that colossal blunder!”
Sir Francis noticed that the queen made no mention of her own faux pas with Thomas Seymour and, at least early on, with Robert Dudley.
Her tirade ceased as quickly as it had begun, but just as Walsingham was about to respond, she went on.
“I want them all here,” she said with deadly calm. “I want them in London, in the Tower! I have blinked and winked at the transgressions of this court long enough!”
Sir Francis said blandly, “They are in Nottinghamshire.”
Elizabeth’s steely gaze met his. “Then send for them.”
Chapter 20
“I will from henceforth be quiet, and give no more ear to [tidings] from Scotland. I will wait patiently, without getting myself into trouble.”
-Mary, Queen of Scots
London, January 1575
T he Countess of Shrewsbury sat next to the Countess of Lennox in the cold, cramped litter, a smug expression on her face and her lips curved into a slight smile. There was no need for two litters on this journey! Her daughter, Lady Elizabeth, was now lawfully married to Charles Stuart and was with child by him; and so her daughter… her daughter! …would someday be Countess of Lennox. By this marriage, the Lady Elizabeth Cavendish had been made royal. As the mother of the bride, Bess was now royally connected. And good enough now to ride in the same litter with Margaret Douglas! Bess stifled a t
riumphant snort.
Her ancestors had been farmers, but had risen, through hard work and shrewd marriages, to gentleman yeoman stock, with several hundred acres to their account. By the mid-1400s, her family were bearing arms. By the time of her own birth in 1527, the Hardwicks were established courtiers, and its females were sent into royal service. Through her own four shrewd marriages, she was a countess and the wealthiest woman in the realm, perhaps even wealthier than the queen, who was dependent upon the Lords and Commons for her bread!
Bess studied her daughter thoughtfully. There was a dark horse! She had always judged her fifth child, her third daughter, to be the antithesis of herself; Elizabeth had always seemed rather shy and unassuming, perhaps even a bit simple. But…let us not mince words! …to actually take it upon herself to sleep with Charles Stuart! Such behavior was either completely stupid on the girl’s part, or vastly clever. She did not care which; either way, Elizabeth was now to be Countess of Lennox, her child would be in the royal line of succession, and Bess was satisfied with that. She had not even chided Elizabeth for her unseemly behavior, since the result was so satisfactory.
Oh, it was true that they were all on their way to London to answer to an angry queen for Charles and Elizabeth’s folly, but what cared she for that? The couple were married, they were in love, or so they believed, and the Lady Elizabeth with child. The whole affair was a fait accompli, and nothing to be done about it now. Yes, they had broken the law, but the deed could not now be undone. There would be a child in July; perhaps August. Her ignorant daughter was exasperatingly vague about dates. The high and mighty Queen Elizabeth must needs either like it or lump it!
Bess lifted the leather flap that covered the window. She eyed the sky. So far it had been a long, cold, miserable journey. The situation was remarkably similar to the trek from Chatsworth to Rufford Abbey the year before. She thanked St. Michael and all His angels that she had not been called upon to spend another night in a litter! But there was no denying that this had been a dreadful journey to London from Nottinghamshire in the very worst winter weather. They encountered tempestuous gales, bitterly cold winds, floods in the Midlands, and sleet that stung like nettles and made the going slick for the horses. And now, if Bess did not miss her guess, they were in for snow before the rapidly waning day was out. She jerked the leather flap back into place with a smart snap.
In High Places Page 67
